Looking For Mr. Goodegg-VII

” What? What do you mean I don’t trust you and it’s hurtful?” I respond when Tod called me on how controlling and confrontational I was being about his preparation for the trip.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, sounding eerily like my mother, “Of course I trust you.”
And yet all I did is ride him for three days about every item he packed. Last night I behaved like a lit match in a gas tank over a dried fruit and nut mixture he bought from Costco.
“Did you not look at the label?” I shrieked, as if he had just walked Gabriel in to two-way traffic. “There is Yellow dye #6 in these, and sulfur dioxide!”
In my mind, this lack of attention to detail about the food Gabriel would be eating, was the exact evidence I needed that camping was just a series of accidents waiting to happen. Next, I caught Tod rolling up a polyester indoor sleeping bag! HELLO?!! A polyester anything on a camping trip? I’m no Ewell Gibbons, but even I know you can’t have synthetic fibers anywhere near flames.
“That sleeping bag is highly flammable.” I said, as tensely as I would if I found another woman’s cell number repeatedly listed on his phone bill.
“I think he’ll be fine.”
“Mom, the sleeping bag goes in the TENT, not by the CAMPFIRE!!” Gabriel added. I could almost here the “Duh!” that would end a sentence like that in ten years, or five.
A few minutes later we moved on to the kitchen,

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